“How did you go bankrupt?” Bill asked.
“Two ways,” Mike said. “Gradually and then suddenly.”
—Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also Rises
Every process has a tipping point, I guess—the moment at which everything seems to click into place or fall apart. Take aging, for example. At first—when you’re a child, a teenager, even well into your twenties—you simply can’t imagine it. Then, in your thirties, your hair may start to turn gray or thin out, or the cellulite starts building up in your thighs. But such changes don’t get in the way of anything you want to do, and the youthful energy and optimism are still intact.
In my forties, the changes were still gradual, if a bit more noticeable—the minor differences in stamina and metabolism, the telltale crow’s feet around my eyes. But these differences paled in comparison to the things that were better in that decade: career success, home ownership, an active social life. I finally understood what Jean Brodie had meant by her prime, a concept that had puzzled me when I first saw the movie as a kid. I loved my forties because age was beginning to bring with it wisdom, confidence, and the ability to not care what other people thought.
And then, like Hemingway’s proverbial bankruptcy, 50 hit with a thud. Maybe it was just the drama of it—the notices from AARP that started cramming my mailbox, the birthday party where friends threatened to bring out a fire extinguisher for the candles—but suddenly I could no longer ignore the slow-down in pretty much everything. After the initial shock, though, things did level off, though the plateau was a lot lower than it had been.
It wasn’t until 60 that the aches and pains started. And then, of course—adding insult to injury—it got distinctly harder to burn off the burgers and ice cream. Like someone in the bargaining stage of grief, I started contemplating trade-offs: Maybe if I just exercised more, or drank less, or threw out the Dove bars. Or maybe I could live with the extra 10 pounds, just consider them the price of doing business—business being happy hour martinis and a decent dessert now and then.
So I’m at the next plateau now, and hoping this one will last a while. Unless I’m using the wrong metaphor, and aging is really more like the proverbial frog in a pan of hot water who doesn’t recognize the increasing temperature until it’s too late. For now, I’m seeing each stage (if not each new backache) as a chance to recalibrate and a reminder to appreciate the view and hold on tight before the next one hits.
Lewis DeSimone 